


True North

by Artemis_Unbound



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (slaps Witcher) this bad boy can hold so much soft angsty stupid, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Big Dumbass Energy in this one boys, Big Soft Witcher, First Kiss, Geralt of Rivia's Abysmal Self-Esteem, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Self-Esteem Issues, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Yep you guessed it, idiots to lovers, it's only a little angsty I promise, mostly just dumbassery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:42:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28699356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis_Unbound/pseuds/Artemis_Unbound
Summary: Witchers don't have soulmarks, because Witchers don't have soulmates....right?Well, even if they did, what kind of lunatic would want to be stuck with a Witcher forever?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 45
Kudos: 527





	True North

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the lovely anon who, in the 'send in a fic you wish I would write' game, sent 'I wish you would write a fic where geralt and jaskier are soulmates but only geralt realizes it at first'!  
> Anon, whoever ye may be, I fucking blue-screened at reading your prompt, rebooted, thought, 'fuck, me too', and proceeded to spend the next four days thinking of nothing but this. Thank you.

Once upon a time, humankind lived alongside dragons and monsters and magic, and they feared these dangers. So they created Witchers, creatures who were once men, but now gifted with unnatural strength and long life, to fight the monsters that lurked in the dark.

And of all the many creatures that walked the earth, humans were the only ones with soulmarks.

Soulmarks usually appeared toward the end of puberty, and as far as anyone could tell, there was no rhyme or reason to when they appeared, except that their soulmate had to exist already. If their soulmate had not yet been born, they would get their mark at the same moment as their younger mate. But age gaps that large were exceedingly rare. Most humans had their marks before they turned eighteen.

Witchers didn't have soulmarks, because Witchers didn't have soulmates.

Everyone knew that.

They all knew about soulmarks; it was explained to them in their training, one of the many strange things about humanity that they would need know, but could never truly understand. And then it was explained that the Trials would change them forever, that they would never wear soulmarks. Never have a soulbond.

That they were destined to walk the world alone.

Witchers knew better than to expect otherwise.

Geralt had been alive a long time—gods, less than a century, and yet it felt so long, and he was so weary.

He'd been alive long enough, in fact, that he'd witnessed a few soulmates finding each other.

It could happen anywhere, he'd learned. One couple had bumped into each other on a busy street, sending everything they were holding flying. As they'd both reached for the same dropped book, they'd seen the matching marks on the backs of their hands.

It was like the world had stopped. They'd slowly gotten to their feet, staring into each other's eyes, and around them people had gone still. Geralt couldn't blame them. The humans could sense the thread of chaos in the air, even if they didn't know what it was.

They had slowly clasped their hands together, fingers overlapping the marks, and there had been something like a silent shockwave that rippled through the air, and their marks went from black to filled with color.

People had clapped and cheered, and the soulmates had gone off hand in hand, staring into each other's eyes like they couldn't stop.

Yes, Geralt had walked among humans long enough to see what soulmarks meant.

Witchers didn't have soulmarks, because they didn't have soulmates.

He knew this.

But still, sometimes, late at night when the fire had burned down and even Roach was asleep, he would pull up his sleeves and stare at his bare skin and wonder guiltily what it would be like to have a soulmark. To know that there was someone out there who was your match in all ways. Who would...be there. Who would walk beside you and not falter because soulmates didn't.

And then he would yank down his sleeves, pull up his blanket and tell himself to stop daydreaming about stupid shit and go to sleep. No one would want a Witcher for a soulmate.

But the thought never really went away. And if he longed for it as he rode along long, silent, empty roads, well, who would know?

***

The pain was what woke him.

Geralt was used to pain, but he was also used to knowing when to expect it.

This, this blazing fire on his skin, concentrated on his thigh but licking out until half his body was screaming in protest, was completely unanticipated.

He shot upright, shoving his blanket aside and fumbling at his trousers until finally the laces came loose and he could shove them down enough to see—

Well.

He'd been expecting some kind of wound, possibly poisoned, not...

Whatever the hell this was.

His skin was unbroken, unburned, but there was a black spot on his thigh, and it seemed to be spreading.

"The fuck?" he muttered, wincing as another bolt of pain went through him. Maybe it was a curse? Had he run afoul of any mages lately?

Slowly, the pain receded, and he was able to crawl over to the remains of the fire, toss a nearby log in, and make a quick sign that had it roaring back to life.

The breath left his lungs all at once.

There was no mistaking it. The lines were way too distinct for this to be some kind of fluke.

He peered closer, afraid to touch it.

It was a compass rose, a simple star with four long points and four short ones, a circle bisecting the long points and a small, curling N above the topmost point.

It was, unmistakably, a soulmark.

_Impossible_.

That was his first thought.

It was impossible.

Witchers didn't have soulmarks. Witchers didn't have _soulmates_.

Except, apparently he did.

He reached out to touch it. His fingers were trembling, and he yanked his hand back at the last moment.

Did this mean that his soulmate was human? That they'd just come of age? Was there a sixteen year old out there wandering around with a compass on their thigh, blissfully unaware of the fact that their soulmate was...

_A Witcher._

Geralt's hands clenched into fists.

That was right.

He was a Witcher, and no sane human being would want to be saddled with a Witcher forever.

Soulmate or not.

He would forget it. What were the odds that he would know them even if they did meet? It wasn't like people walked around bare-legged, so unless his soulmate became a whore, he could pass them on the street and never know.

He nodded to himself, got back into his bedroll, and went to sleep.

And if he only visited whores he already knew after that, well, that was his business.

***

It was a little less than two years after his soulmark appeared that he found himself in Posada, drinking watery ale and wondering if the rumors of trouble up this way were just talk. He'd been in town for almost a full day and no one had approached him yet, and there was nothing posted on the notice board.

At least it was cheap. After paying for his drink, he was down to his last coin.

_Guess we'll be living on the road for a while again, Roach_ , he thought in the vague direction of his horse.

"...so that she might get an abortion~!"

Geralt looked up at the showy young bard prancing around the tavern, undeterred despite the total lack of reaction he'd gotten thus far.

"Abort yourself!" someone shouted, and a hunk of bread flew through the air.

Well, it was a reaction, but undoubtedly not the one the bard had been hoping for.

But the young man clearly knew to quit while he was ahead, because he ducked the vegetables coming at him, scooped up the bread, shoved it in his pocket, and swung his lute over his back.

No violence. No need to interfere.

Geralt went back to his drink.

And then:

"I love the way you just, sit in the corner and brood."

The bard.

"I'm here to drink alone."

The bard, unfortunately, was more tenacious than Geralt would ever have guessed, and definitely missing a few of the basic instincts that kept most humans alive.

When they were walking back through Dol Blathanna, the bard strumming his new lute and singing his irritating coin song, Geralt grunted and caught the annoying creature's eye.

"What?" the bard asked, his bright blue eyes wide. Gods, they were the same shade as the cloudless sky above them.

_Stunning_.

"What's your name?" Geralt asked, shaking off that ridiculous thought.

Those eyes widened even more, and then the bard tossed his head back with a laugh, his dark brown hair catching the sunlight. "My deepest and humblest apologies!" he said, sweeping into a courtly bow. "I am Jaskier, travelling bard, at your service."

"Anyone ever told you you're annoying, Jaskier?" Geralt grunted.

Jaskier's smile didn't falter. "Everyone I have ever met! Good taste is rare indeed, I'm afraid."

"Hmm." Geralt bit back on the absurd urge to smile.

He assumed the bard would return to Posada, but when Geralt swung wide to avoid the town, Jaskier followed.

"Town's that way." He pointed, in case Jaskier had a bad sense of direction.

"I know," the bard said cheerfully.

"…Aren't you going back?"

"And miss out on more thrilling adventures?" Jaskier scoffed. "I wouldn't dream of it. Besides, I think we can both agree that I had rather worn out my welcome with that crowd, and I haven't the coin to pay for a room."

Geralt was silent.

It sounded as if Jaskier was planning on joining Geralt in his travels, but surely that couldn't be right.

"That," Geralt started, and then lapsed.

"What?" Jaskier cocked his head.

"Are you stupid?"

Okay, so that didn't come out exactly as he'd hoped, but it was still a fair question.

Jaskier didn't think so. He sputtered indignantly, and finally huffed out, "Well! How rude! Is that any way to talk to the man who's going to make you the hero of the Continent?"

Geralt snorted.

"I am! You just wait and see." He strummed a few sullen chords and then turned back. "Why do you ask?"

"You do know what a Witcher is? Giving all my money to elves isn't a normal day."

"Yes, yes, terrifying monsters, fights to the death, I understand." Jaskier sounded far too excited at the prospect. "But do tell me about a normal day."

"Getting swallowed by a selkiemore so I can cut it open from the inside," Geralt said, taking a slightly mean pleasure in the face the bard made.

"That is positively _revolting_ , Geralt. I do hope you'll let me watch!"

The impulse to roll his eyes was almost impossible to resist. "You want to get eaten, bard?"

"Preferably not."

"Hmm."

"Oh, come on!" Jaskier whined. "I'll stay back, I just want to see!"

"If you're close enough to see, you're too fucking close."

"You, my friend, have no sense of drama."

"Not your friend."

"You cut me to the quick! After what we've been through together!"

"Hmm."

Jaskier continued on in this vein for the rest of the afternoon, and when the sun went down, he followed Geralt into the woods and helped him make camp.

He didn't have as many survival skills as he probably ought, but he gathered firewood and kindling without complaint, and whistled cheerfully as he built them up into a pyramid.

"Er," he said finally. "I haven't got any flint."

Geralt made a quick igni sign and watched the boy's expression of shock as the fire roared up. But, to his surprise, the shock didn't become fear. It turned to excitement.

"Was that _magic_?" Jaskier demanded, leaning forward. "Show me again!"

Bewildered, Geralt made his hand into the sign. Jaskier grabbed his hand, examining the placement of his fingers, and attempted to replicate it.

"Won't work," Geralt told him. "You're not a Witcher."

"I didn't know Witchers could do magic! That's incredible."

Well, that settled it.

Jaskier was definitely a bit mad.

***

It was a week later that it happened.

Geralt had killed a noonwraith the day before, and they'd been travelling steadily since Posada.

Jaskier was flagging. He was young (so young), and healthy and strong, but he wasn't used to walking twelve hours every day with precious few breaks.

It was an hour or so past noon when he stopped dead in the middle of the road.

Geralt kept walking for several seconds before realizing what had happened and turning around

Jaskier had his hands on his hips. "Geralt, I can't take another step," he declared. "I'm hot, I'm sore, I'm _filthy_ , and I'm tired. I must rest. An hour at least. Or I will scream." His hands were on his hips, but his face betrayed his weariness. He really was tired, and annoying as he was, Geralt was...somewhat fond of him.

Geralt turned and stepped off the road.

Jaskier scrambled to follow. "I mean it, Geralt, I can't keep on, I'm exhausted, I--"

He stopped short.

Geralt had been hearing the sound of running water for most of the day. Not too far from the road, there was a small river, cool and clean and secluded by trees from anyone passing by.

"Oh," Jaskier breathed. "Oh, Geralt, this is _beautiful_."

Geralt looked around again. It was, rather. The trees opened up into a clearing full of wildflowers, and the river bubbled over flat rocks in the middle.

"Hmm."

"You old softie," Jaskier teased, already stripping out of his doublet. "Thank you."

Geralt turned away, busying himself with hitching Roach to a tree.

Jaskier gave a whoop and a splash indicated that he'd leapt into the river.

"Aren't you coming?"

Geralt sighed and began to peel off his armor. The prospect of rinsing the dust of the road off was too tempting to even consider resisting.

He was just pulling off his shirt when Jaskier climbed out of the river and went to Roach to get the soap.

As the bard turned, the sun fell on his left side, and Geralt froze.

"What?"

Geralt jerked at his voice, eyes jumping away. He grunted.

"A man of eloquence, as always," Jaskier said, jumping back in.

Geralt said nothing. He didn't think he could have, even if he'd wanted to.

_It wasn't_ , he tried to tell himself. _It was a coincidence. It wasn't—_

But Witchers had keen eyes. And he'd spent enough time staring at the mark on his thigh, had every line and detail memorized.

Unable to help himself, he glanced at Jaskier again, where he was standing knee-deep in the water.

There it was, on the outside of his left thigh. Identical in every way.

Jaskier was his soulmate.

_Shit_.

***

_It doesn't matter_ , Geralt tried to tell himself that night as he stared up at the stars.

_He never needs to know._

Sure, Jaskier seemed oddly unafraid of Geralt, and was weirdly okay with travelling by his side and sleeping in his presence and even touching him, patting him on the back, bumping their shoulders together, slapping Geralt's knee when he was on Roach. But all of that was a far cry from being all right with a Witcher for a soulmate.

Geralt turned his head. Jaskier was sprawled on his bedroll, lips parted, face lax and boyish in sleep, hair tousled. His long, dark eyelashes rested on his cheek and something about it made Geralt's stomach hurt.

He was so _young_. Barely nineteen.

So young, and so... _alive_ , so colorful and happy, and talented and passionate. He...he had his whole life ahead of him, and it should be full of triumph and laughter and...love. He deserved more than to be tied to a Witcher and live a life of blood and weariness and pain with a monster who had never known love in all his long years.

Geralt wouldn't tell him. He wouldn't have a soulmate, but he would be happy.

The Witcher rolled over, putting his back to his companion—his soulmate.

_He never needs to know._

***

Travelling with Jaskier became much harder after that.

It wasn't difficult to hide his own mark, really. As long as he kept his trousers on, there was no chance of being discovered.

But having Jaskier around all the time, _knowing_...

Jaskier had always been beautiful, but it was suddenly so much harder not to notice, to turn his eyes away from the feast of Jaskier's face, the strong lines of his body, and worst of all, that dazzling blue of his eyes. Gods, but it was hard to look away from Jaskier's eyes.

It was simultaneously a relief and torture to part with him when winter came.

Jaskier's eyes were shadowed when they said their goodbyes on the road by the Pontar. He hesitated, chewing on his lip for a long moment, before throwing his arms around Geralt's shoulders and holding him with bruising force.

Geralt blinked into Jaskier's hair.

Tentatively, he put his hands on Jaskier's back, feeling the muscles shift there as Jaskier squeezed even harder.

When they finally pulled apart, Jaskier was smiling, but his eyes were oddly bright.

"I'll miss you, dear," he said.

Geralt hummed, and Jaskier laughed.

"Have a good winter, my friend."

"Not your friend," Geralt said.

Jaskier just grinned, turned, and walked away without looking back.

It was only when Geralt was walking through the halls of Kaer Morhen that he realized Jaskier's eyes had been bright with tears.

***

In spring, Geralt was barely two weeks out of Kaer Morhen when he walked into a little town on the Pontar and heard a cheery voice call out, “Geralt! There you are!” As if Jaskier had been…looking for him. Waiting for him.

Geralt joined the bard at his table and listened as Jaskier babbled about his winter at Oxenfurt and didn’t even notice the way his shoulders relaxed and his mouth softened into something that was almost a smile.

Jaskier had a room and immediately offered Geralt half of his bed, and the next morning when Geralt set off to the south, Jaskier was at his side.

It was...nice.

Having someone who was always there, who seemed to care when Geralt was hurt, who filled the days with chatter and song, who looked at Geralt like he was...human. Or maybe even something better.

It was hard, but it was nice. Even though Geralt knew that someday, sooner with each dawn, Jaskier would get bored and move on to something less difficult, less dangerous.

“Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice was hushed in a way Geralt had never heard. Instantly on edge, Geralt’s head snapped up. But the bard was smiling, not his beaming smile or his boyish grin or even his soft, wondering smile that he sometimes gave Geralt at night when Geralt told him something personal. It was tiny, this new smile, and soft, and a little sad.

He pointed covertly across the tavern they were sitting in, and Geralt followed the gesture to see two young women standing at the bar, gazing at each other like…like…Geralt’s eyes flicked down. Sure enough, one was pushing up her sleeve, turning her forearm up so that she could compare the mark there to the one the other girl was showing off.

They looked into each other’s eyes, and then, hesitantly, reached for each other’s marks. Geralt turned away, digging into his fish with an enthusiasm he didn’t feel, his appetite gone.

“Isn’t it beautiful,” Jaskier whispered dreamily. He sighed heavily, his eyes distant. “I used to read so many stories about soulbonds when I was in school. Of course, there are hundreds of songs and fairy tales about it, soulmates finding each other, being torn apart by cruel fate, having to overcome all sorts of challenges for each other. Isn’t it beautiful…The idea that there’s one person out there, more suited to be by your side than all the others, someone who’s made to be with you…it’s so unbearably romantic, isn’t it?”

Before Geralt could say anything (not that he would have, since he was very intent on staring at his fish), Jaskier put up his hands with a little laugh. “Not, of course, that the soulbond must be a romantic one. I know of plenty of people who find their soulmark brings them to their best friend. But I confess, I hope, when it happens for me, it will be someone I can love that deeply, who will love me just as fiercely. I want to love someone like that. So much that the world will sing of it for a thousand years.”

Geralt was very still, his heart pounding so hard in his chest that it was almost as fast as a human’s. Jaskier let out a wistful sigh and raked a hand through his hair, gazing at the two women. “But I don’t know if I’ll ever find them,” he added, quieter still, vulnerable. “My mark is in a rather unusual place, you see, and it’s not so often I’m in a position to see someone there.”

Geralt suddenly wondered if maybe that was why Jaskier was so willing to bed anyone who asked. So that he could glance at their thighs and see if they were meant for him.

“I almost asked you if you’d ever met your soulmate, but then I remembered that Witchers don’t have marks,” Jaskier added. “I’m sorry, Geralt.”

Geralt shrugged, taking a hasty bite.

“Although, I guess you’ve never known anything different, but still I would think it would be difficult,” Jaskier mused. He reached out a hand and laid it over Geralt’s on the table, as if in sympathy.

Geralt just grunted, examining the curve of Jaskier’s fingernails out of the corner of his eye.

Not long after, Jaskier withdrew his hand and got up to perform, dedicating his first song, a romantic ballad, to the two women sitting close together nearby.

The warmth of his hand lingered, even as the cold his words had brought lingered in Geralt’s heart.

_I hope, when it happens for me, it will be someone I can love deeply, who will love me just as fiercely._

Geralt’s hand was clenched around his fork, so tight that his knuckles had turned white and the metal was bent back.

Witchers couldn’t love.

And nobody loved a Witcher.

***

Jaskier was an idiot.

This was a consistent problem on their travels.

The bard insisted on following Geralt on his contracts, insisted on arguing with innkeepers who refused to serve him, insisted on, occasionally, hitting someone who’d said one too many nasty things about Witchers with a barstool.

Yes, Jaskier was an idiot.

Which was why Geralt always made sure to hide his smile when he had to catch his bard by the collar and haul him out of the way of flailing fists and smashing bottles.

He was much less inclined to smile when Jaskier pursued Geralt on dangerous contracts. There had already been too many close calls, and Geralt still had nightmares about the moment when a drowner’s claws had found purchase just a half second before Geralt’s sword severed the appendage. Sure, there was barely even a scar on Jaskier’s ankle, but in the dreams, the claws caught around his chest, or worse, his throat, and his fragile human body tore apart and he died choking and gasping and unable to speak in Geralt’s arms.

Those were the nights that Geralt spent staring at the rise and fall of Jaskier’s chest in the night, waiting until dawn, until it was too early still, but late enough that he could shake Jaskier awake and demand they move on as Jaskier groaned and grumbled about the cruel pace and filled Geralt’s ears with his voice all day.

But even so, even having brushed so close to death on more occasions that Geralt would care to remember, Jaskier insisted on following him.

He told him to stay back, but Jaskier rarely listened.

He had told him to stay back, damn it.

The griffin shrieked, blood spraying from the wing Geralt had clipped as it tried to launch into the sky.

It stayed aloft for a moment, and then careened back toward the ground, screaming, claws extended—right toward Jaskier, who was way too fucking close to the fight again.

Geralt wasn’t going to get there in time, he knew before it even happened.

But that didn’t stop him from trying. He ran so fast that even his enhanced lungs burned, his feet barely touching the ground.

“JASKIER!”

His throat ached, though he hadn’t decided to shout.

The bard scrambled backward, trying to evade the angry creature as it landed and began stabbing at him with its beak.

Geralt leapt, his sword high.

The griffin struck.

Silver flashed; blood arced through the air; with two heavy thunks, the griffin’s body collapsed, and its head went rolling away.

Geralt didn’t even stop to grab the head. He had eyes only for Jaskier, who was flat on the ground and smelled of pain and human blood.

“Jaskier!”

“Geralt,” Jaskier whimpered.

Geralt dropped his sword, racing over to his bard and throwing himself to his knees.

Blood was seeping between Jaskier’s fingers, clamped over his side.

“Geralt, it really hurts,” Jaskier said, tears falling down his cheeks.

Geralt grabbed him, putting his knees under Jaskier’s back, tugging at his ruined doublet with one hand as the other slid into his hair—soft, soft hair, even softer than Geralt had imagined—to support his head.

“I know,” Geralt said roughly. “I know, but let me look at it.”  
Jaskier let Geralt yank off his doublet and shove up his shirt without protest, without even looking down. His eyes were fixed on Geralt’s face, as if it was the only thing in the world that could bring him comfort.

Geralt pushed the shirt up and carefully felt around the wound with two fingers, brows drawing tight when Jaskier let out small cries of pain.

“Geralt?” The Witcher glanced at Jaskier’s face and paused; those blue eyes were wide and frightened, his lower lip caught between his teeth. “Am I dying?”

Geralt looked at the wound again, then back to Jaskier’s face, and managed a small chuckle. “No, stupid bard, you’re not dying.”

Jaskier gave a weak gasp of indignation. “How dare you! I have just very nearly been disemboweled and you’re mocking my perfectly legitimate question!”

“Not dying,” Geralt grunted, irritated at the very idea of Jaskier being disemboweled. “But I need to stitch it.”

Jaskier paled even further, but set his jaw. “Right,” he agreed. “Right. Well. Onward ho, then.”

Geralt ducked his head to hide a small smile. His bard was so very brave.

He gave Jaskier his last clean shirt to bite down on as he worked, and when he was done, Jaskier caught his hand in a weakened grip.

“Thank you, my dear Witcher,” the bard rasped, voice raw from holding back screams. “You’re always saving me. I wish I could do something as worthy for you.”

Geralt just shook his head with a displeased grunt. He didn’t have the words or the courage to tell Jaskier what he was thinking, which was something like, _you already save me. You save me from boredom and silence and loneliness, and you make my grim Path bright, and you are a sun in this dark world, and I don’t think I could bear it if you died and left me alone. Please don’t ever leave me._

Jaskier just squeezed his hand and smiled.

_Witchers don’t get to be loved_ , Geralt reminded himself. _He will leave someday, he’ll find something better than this shit lot of a life, and he’ll leave, because Witchers don’t get loved._

He had long since stopped being able to tell himself that Witchers didn’t love.

***

Jaskier was still at his side, and it had been so long and so good, and Geralt wasn’t sure he’d survive it when the bard finally left.

They walked into Hagge, and Geralt made straight for the notice board in the center of town. Jaskier went off to find them a room at the inn, calling, "Meet me there and I'll have dinner waiting, my friend!" over his shoulder.

"Not your friend," Geralt murmured, even though Jaskier was already out of earshot. _Not your friend,_ he thought again. Friend wasn't the right word for all he felt for Jaskier.

Instead of letting himself think too hard about that, he turned to the board.

His eyes narrowed.

When he walked into the inn, as promised, Jaskier was waiting at a table with two bowls of stew and two pints of ale.

He allowed a small smile to cross his face as he sat, and Jaskier's answering grin felt like sun after months of rain. It always did.

"So, anything good?" he asked with a mouthful of potatoes.

"Hmm," Geralt grunted. "Think it might be a wyvern."

"A wyvern?" Jaskier's eyes took on a familiar light. "I don't think you've fought one of those since I've been with you."

"You're not coming."

Jaskier's jaw dropped. "Wha—Geralt!" he whined.

"It's too dangerous. I need to focus."

Jaskier was pouting, his eyes ridiculously big and blue, but Geralt wasn't going to give in this time.

"No, Jaskier. Stay here. Play. Sing."

Jaskier groaned dramatically, but eventually nodded. "Fine."

"Good."

That night, Geralt headed out while Jaskier was performing. He paused in the doorway, knowing he shouldn't, and looked at Jaskier, prancing around the room in his green doublet, his voice captivating the villagers—and Geralt, too.

A moment later, Jaskier seemed to feel Geralt's eyes on him, and met his gaze. For a moment, the inn and the village and the world faded, and it was just the two of them.

Jaskier gave him a wink. Geralt nodded and slipped out the door.

Wyverns nested in caves in the mountains, and even on Roach, it took him until nearly sunset the next day to find the beast.

Geralt dismounted, drew his silver sword, downed a dose of Cat, and headed into the dark.

Wyverns were some of the most difficult creatures to kill. Their tough layer of scales, their sword-length teeth and claws, and their acidic spit were bad enough, but their choice of home meant he was almost always fighting in a dark, enclosed space, which was never exactly ideal.

For several moments, things seemed to be going well.

And then the wyvern swung its tail, half the cave fell in, and the air filled with dust.

From there it was all a blur of flashing scales, burning pain, and the sensation of his sword catching between two scales and throwing all his weight behind it.

The pain surged and rolled.

His last thought was of blue eyes, waiting for him. What would Jaskier think when Geralt didn't come back?

And then darkness swallowed him.

***

"...alt! Geralt! Oh, gods, Geralt, please be alive!"

He knew that voice.

"Jas'r," he rasped.

"Geralt!" Jaskier shrieked.

"Jask...gotta run...wyvern..." he managed to choke, every word sending pain through him.

"It's dead, Geralt, you killed it, I'm coming, I'm coming, there's so much rock, but I'm almost there, dearheart, okay? I'm almost there."

Jaskier kept babbling, his voice like a balm. And then there was a warm hand on his arm, and Geralt sighed and slipped away again.

He swam in and out of conscious, vaguely aware of the feeling of movement, and then the overwhelming smell of humans, and then a pain that was almost unbearable.

And then a voice.

_The_ voice.

The only voice he had ever wanted to hear.

“…be awake by now?”

Another voice, less beautiful, replied, “The injuries were severe. There’s no telling when he might come to.”

“But he’s a Witcher!” Jaskier sounded distressed, frayed. “His healing abilities—I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I just…Thank you.”

“It might help if you talk to him,” the other voice suggested softly. “Might help him to wake up.”

“Well, I’ve always been good at that. Thanks.”

The pain was receding, just slightly, enough to make out the sounds of soft rustling and familiar footsteps.

The bed dipped down, and a soft, warm hand slipped into Geralt’s, thumb rubbing slow circles over his knuckles. “You’ve been unconscious for three days, darling,” he said softly. “Three whole days…I know you always say that I don’t need any help carrying on a conversation, but it does get awfully lonely without your grunts. I bet you’re wondering how I found you, hmm?” Geralt hadn’t been, but now he was. He’d been almost a day away from Hagge, how could Jaskier possibly have tracked him and brought him back on his own? “It was Roach, actually. She showed up in town square, kicking up a fuss. No one else would go near her, she was that upset, but she let me. I got on and she took me straight to you. Except all I could see was a big pile of rocks and a giant dead lizard with your sword in its throat. Naturally, I started screaming.”

Geralt almost wanted to smile, but he couldn’t make his mouth move.

“And eventually I heard you whispering my name. Made it easier to find which pile of rock you were under, although moving it wasn’t any less difficult. You were…”

Jaskier swallowed.

“You didn’t look so good. You were covered in blood, your leg broken and half eaten away with venom. I bandaged what I could and then got you on Roach. Brought you back here. The healer got you fixed up, and now…now you’re lying here. Unconscious. Not talking to me, or scowling, or grunting. And I can’t live that way, Geralt. I can’t, all right? I—I know you don’t want to hear it, so you’ll have to wake up and stop me, because I have no desire to live a life without you in it.” His voice had gone soft and thick, and Geralt could smell salt.

And then, a soft plop and water dripped onto his hand and he realized—Jaskier was _crying_.

That gave Geralt the motivation to push his way up, through the pain and the haze, and blink his eyes open.

Jaskier gave a quiet gasp.

The first thing Geralt saw was that beautiful face, those blue eyes glimmering but a smile on that plush mouth. A soft hand came up to cup his cheek.

“Jask,” he managed to say.

Jaskier let out a wet chuckle. “Hey, gorgeous,” he whispered, more tears falling down his cheeks. “I missed those beautiful eyes of yours.”

Geralt must have made a face, because Jaskier tsked. “None of that now,” he said. “They’re like sunlight, and they’re so, so lovely. Oh, gods, Geralt, I am glad you’re awake.”

Geralt tilted his face into that warm palm, too tired and hurt to tamp down on the impulse. “Shouldn’t have come after me,” he mumbled, taking deep whiffs of the delicious sunlight and grass scent of Jaskier’s skin. “Could have been hurt.”

“For you, my dear, it would be worth it.”

Jaskier’s eyes were so serious that Geralt couldn’t bear to look into them.

“Missed you,” Geralt said. He was vaguely aware that it made no sense, since he and Jaskier had been travelling together for five months without a break.

But Jaskier just smiled, stroking his cheek. That felt so good.

“I missed you, too, dearest,” he whispered.

Geralt sighed, and slept.

***

The next time he woke up, he felt much better, in mind and body.

He sat up, grunting when it sent a lance of pain through newly-healed ribs.

“Geralt!” Jaskier scurried over, hands fluttering. “You’re looking much better! Feeling it too, I hope?”

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed.

Jaskier laughed brightly, relief plain in his face. “You must be, if you’re talking in grunts again. Do you think you can walk? Here, let me—”

And Jaskier slipped up to his side and put an arm around his waist, letting Geralt lean on him when his leg wouldn’t take all his weight.

“We’ve imposed on Magda here quite long enough, I think, so let’s get you to the inn, where you can heal up in peace.”

Geralt only listened with half an ear, reveling in the sound of Jaskier’s voice more than the words.

The bard towed him back to the inn, helped him navigate the stairs, and deposited him gently on the bed before pausing for breath.

Geralt cocked his head.

Jaskier blew a breath out, giving Geralt a crooked smile. “You worried me something awful,” the bard said at last.

“Sorry,” Geralt mumbled.

Jaskier sighed and sat beside him, tentatively taking his hand. Geralt let him.

“Please don’t do that again,” said Jaskier, almost inaudibly.

Geralt frowned. “Jaskier…”

“I know, I know, you’re a Witcher, it’s your job, but. Just don’t. Don’t make me stay behind, don’t get almost fatally wounded, don’t make me sit and wait and hope that you’ll live to see the morning. Please, Geralt. I don’t think I could—I don’t think I could bear it.”

Geralt didn’t know what to say. The silence stretched out between them, the scent of Jaskier’s sadness and fear heavy in the air, until at last, Geralt squeezed his hand. It was the best he could do.

It seemed to be enough, because Jaskier squeezed back and gave him a small smile.

“All right, dearheart, let’s get you tucked into bed, and I’ll go get some food. You need to rest.”

"I don't—"

"I warn you now," Jaskier cut him off with merciless cheerfulness, "That if you say one word about Witcher healing or your infernal ability to handle pain, I will tie you to the bedposts."

Geralt opened his mouth to protest that Jaskier wouldn't be able to get the drop on him, looked into the bard’s manic eyes, and closed it again without a word.

Jaskier nodded and bounced out of the room.

The moment he came through the door with fragrant plates of chicken and dumplings, Geralt's stomach let out a growl that echoed through the room.

Jaskier laughed. "Hungry, my sweet? Here you are."

Rolling his eyes, he took the plate.

They ate in companionable silence, and by the time Jaskier snatched the silverware from him, Geralt's eyes were growing heavy. Healing always exhausted him.

"Into bed with you now, darling," Jaskier said in a soft voice, his warm hands guiding Geralt down and drawing the blankets up over him.

When the bard started to pull away, Geralt caught his wrist.

He could barely keep his eyes open, but he managed to catch the bard's gaze. "Stay," he mumbled, yawning.

Jaskier's worried frown smoothed into a smile, and he obligingly sat at the headboard and started running his fingers through Geralt's hair.

It felt unbelievable.

"Well, this is just a simple song," Jaskier sang quietly, "To say what you've done."

Geralt turned carefully onto his side, letting his nose press against Jaskier's hip, breathing him in as his voice lulled him to sleep.

_I told you about all those fears_

_And away they did run  
_

_You sure must be strong_

_And you feel like an ocean_

_Being warmed by the sun_

Jaskier's fingers traced over his forehead, a barely there touch, and Geralt drifted away.

***

The next time Geralt opened his eyes, late morning sunlight was streaming through the windows and Jaskier was strumming his lute very quietly across the room.

Of course, he noticed the moment Geralt shifted and set the instrument back in its case, coming to the bedside.

"Good morning," he said.

"Hmm."

Gods, healing took it out of him. He fought back a yawn as he sat up, disgruntled by the sluggish feeling in his limbs and the fuzziness of his mind.

"Now, let's have a look at that leg," Jaskier said, tugging the blanket off him and reaching for the bandage. "The healer gave me more of that salve, if we need it, and then we can rewrap it, just to be on the safe side. There was a pretty big chunk of flesh just sort of missing from your thigh and it was sizzling and oozing when I got to you, so I want to be sure it...heals...right..."

Jaskier trailed off, and Geralt didn't realize his hands had frozen until his heartbeat stuttered.

Geralt blinked, and then, all at once, much too late, _realized_.

Jaskier had pulled the bandage away from his thigh.

His left thigh.

Which, two days ago, had still been missing a large hunk of flesh, but was now almost completely healed.

Geralt's eyes darted down, but he already knew what he was going to see.

Jaskier was frozen, staring fixedly down at the black compass rose on Geralt's reddened skin.

For a long, long moment, there was silence.

The silence stretched on and on, until it got so heavy that Geralt, uncharacteristically, had to be the one to break it.

"Jaskier..."

Jaskier looked up into his face.

He looked into Geralt's eyes, and his expression slowly morphed into one of horror.

Geralt's heart shattered.

"You knew," Jaskier whispered.

Geralt looked away. "Yes."

"You _knew_!"

Geralt said nothing.

Jaskier shoved away from him, stumbling over to the far wall, shaking.

"How—how could you have—how could you not—I don't—is it really—" Jaskier was stammering, and that was when Geralt caught his scent.

It was salty and coppery with pain and sorrow.

Geralt's head shot up.

Jaskier's blue eyes were spilling over, tears sliding down his cheeks.

"Geralt, how long have you known?" His voice was hoarse. "Geralt, _how long_?"

"Since that time I took you to the river. After the noonwraith."

Jaskier's face did something complicated. "But that's—that was right after we met! Geralt, that was almost three years ago!"

Geralt nodded.

There was another long pause, Jaskier's harsh breaths echoing in the small room.

"How could you not tell me?" Geralt was looking at Jaskier's hands; they were shaking, but they were easier than looking into his eyes. Jaskier let out a strangled sob. "Am I really so horrible?"

"What?" The word was out of his mouth before he could stop it, his gaze dragging back up to Jaskier's face in sheer confusion.

Jaskier pressed one of his hands to his stomach as if he was in pain. "Am I that bad of an option? Am I such a disappointment as a soulmate that you couldn't even—you couldn't even tell me?"

Geralt was on his feet. "Jaskier, no, that's not— _no_."

Jaskier was sobbing in earnest now, and it was agony to witness. "Then why? Why would you...all these years?"

"Jaskier, I'm..." Frustrated, Geralt dragged a hand through his hair. "It's _me_ , Jaskier. I'm the one who--I'm the bad option. Can't you see that? I'm a Witcher. I was twisted into a killing machine, and I'm not meant to—You deserve so much more than this, Jaskier. You deserve someone like you, someone who's happy and bright and can talk to you and give you soft, pretty things. Not this. Not sleeping in the woods and never having enough coin and nearly getting eaten every other week, and—you should have a good life, Jaskier. Not this."

Jaskier's sobs had trailed off into great hitching breaths as he spoke, and now those watery blue eyes were staring at him.

Jaskier took a tentative step forward. He put his hands on Geralt's shoulders—and shoved him.

"For someone with no self-esteem to speak of, you are an arrogant son of a bitch!" the bard hissed.

"I—wha—" But Jaskier wasn't listening.

"Did you ever even consider letting me make that choice for myself? Did you ever think that maybe I deserved to know that I had a soulmate, that I had a right to decide whether I wanted to be with you or not? Maybe you're right! Maybe I should be with someone soft and cheerful and rich!"

Geralt's heart twinged with pain at the very thought.

"But maybe I like sleeping in the woods!" Jaskier was shouting now, his voice bouncing off the ceiling. "Maybe I like being poor and maybe I like danger, and maybe I like you!"

Geralt stared at him, hardly daring to hope.

Jaskier was panting, eyes bright with fury. "Maybe I already _chose_ you, you fucking idiot," he said in a deadly even tone. "Maybe I could have had everything you seem to think I need, any time I wanted, but I chose to leave my family—my _noble_ family, and their manor and their jewels—to study music. And maybe I chose to leave Oxenfurt to become a traveling bard. And maybe I chose to follow you. Because I _like_ traveling. And I _like_ adventure. And most of all—most of all, you great stupid bastard—I like _you_. Love you, in fact."

At that, Geralt stopped breathing altogether.

_Witchers don't get loved._

"I love you, Geralt of Rivia, White Wolf, Butcher of Blaviken." His voice had gone very soft. "I love your rough hands and your brooding face and your grunts. I love you when you own nothing but your horse, and when you're covered in monster blood, and when you're so out of sorts you don't speak for an entire day. I have loved you since the day you stopped in your Path to take me to a meadow full of wildflowers and let me spend all afternoon bathing in a river, that very same day that you learned the truth and decided to hide it. I have known since the very beginning that you are more than what others think, more even than what you think. And I have loved you all the while. So how dare you?"

Geralt winced at the venom in his words.

"How dare you take my choice from me? How dare you walk around like a martyr while denying me the right to decide my own destiny? And you know what the worst of it all is?" Jaskier laughed, but it was utterly devoid of amusement. "The worst thing, Geralt, is that by deciding that I wouldn't choose you, so why bother, you also didn't choose _me_."

"No, I—" Geralt tried to say, a flutter of panic in his stomach, barely able to comprehend what was happening but sure that he had to contradict _that_.

"You didn't choose to trust me. You didn't choose to believe that your soulmate could be someone who didn't care about any of the rumors, who didn't care about having a soft and easy life. I am your _friend_! If nothing else, you could have trusted that, trusted that we could come back from it if I didn't want you romantically."

"I...I'm sorry," Geralt said, feeling the weakness of it even as he said it.

Jaskier heaved a harsh sigh. "I know, dear. I know you are. But I need some time to process this. I'll see you tonight."

And he turned and walked out, letting the door swing shut behind him.

And if he hadn't said 'see you tonight', Geralt would have crumpled into a heap and likely died of heartbreak right then.

***

Geralt sat on the bed, staring blankly at the wall as the shadows lengthened, and then darkened.

It was full dark when the distant sound of lute strings floated into his ears.

For the first time in hours, he moved, looking around before realizing that the noise was coming from the tavern below.

_Jaskier_.

Spurred to motion, Geralt built up a fire in the hearth and closed the shutters to keep in the warmth. Jaskier loved coming back to a warm room after a performance.

Then, he paced the room, listening, for three songs.

_I should go down there._

The thought barely crossed his mind before he was tugging on his boots and rushing down the stairs and—

Stopping dead at the base of the stairs.

Jaskier was so beautiful.

Geralt had seen him perform countless times over the years, but still, he was so _beautiful_ like this, his fingers sure and swift on the strings, his shoulders straight with confidence, his smile wide and dazzling.

It made Geralt's chest ache, and oh.

_Oh_.

He had been told his whole life that Witchers couldn't love, but he loved this man.

He'd been avoiding even thinking about it for so long, but he loved Jaskier.

He loved him, and he wanted him, and he wanted to keep him, and maybe, just maybe, Jaskier would let him.

"For my final song of the night, I'm going to play something new for all of you," Jaskier said. "This is the first time this song has ever been performed for an audience, so I hope you enjoy!"

The crowd cheered briefly, and Jaskier began to play, soft and sweet, and a little sad.

_I suppose that I look different, without the robes and crown._

_I come this day before you, with no riches, no renown,_

_For here I am no leader, I am just a humble man,_

_And I only ask you take me,_

_You take me as I am._

_I'm not looking for perfection; I'm not offering a saint._

_I'm not looking for a pretty bird to put in some restraint._

_The only thing I want is that you love me, if you can,_

_And I only ask you take me,_

_You take me as I am._

_I offer you a look inside, I offer you that trust._

_I need your strength to help me fight the battles that I must._

_I need you to remind me of the light we bear within,_

_That there's more to life than struggle,_

_And the things we seek to win._

_Don't take me out of duty, don't take me out of pride;_

_Just take me if the man you see is one you'd stand beside._

_I'm offering an open heart. I'm asking for your hand._

_And I only ask you take me,_

_You take me as I am._

_You take me as I am._

The song ended, and the patrons clapped quietly, subdued by the raw yearning in it.

Geralt was already moving when Jaskier looked up, and he saw the way those blue eyes widened.

Jaskier was sitting on a low stool at the far end of the tavern, and by the time Geralt reached him, the limping Witcher had drawn the attention of everyone in the room.

He didn't care.

He dropped to his knees in front of Jaskier and hesitantly took his hand.

"I'm sorry, Jaskier," he said quietly. "I'm sorry. I'm...not as good as you at talking, at...feeling. But I—I promise that I'll try. I can learn, if you don't mind helping me. I want to learn. I want to be better for you. I want...to be yours. I _am_ yours. I always was, I just didn't know how to give you something so broken. I love you, Jaskier. And I know I'm...difficult. Not what most people would want for a soulmate. But will you take me anyway?” He swallowed hard. “As I am?"

Jaskier's eyes were teary again, but he was smiling this time, that soft, awed smile that was just for Geralt.

He cupped Geralt's face in his hands. "Oh, my darling," he whispered. "That is all I've ever wanted."

And then Jaskier's lips were on his, and Geralt made a low, wounded sound in the back of his throat and wrapped his arms around Jaskier's neck.

Jaskier laughed into the kiss, sliding from his stool to straddle Geralt's lap, the lute awkwardly pressed between them as Jaskier tilted Geralt's face up and kissed him again and again and again.

And later, upstairs, after they had shed their clothes and were standing face to face, Geralt reached out, asking Jaskier without words if this was what he wanted.

Jaskier smiled like the sun and slid his hand over Geralt's thigh.

It was, Geralt thought, like having pure sunlight injected straight into his veins.

So warm it almost burned, so bright it was almost blinding, his heart racing, euphoria spreading from his chest all the way down to his toes, and it grew and grew until it was too much and they had to yank their hands away, gasping.

Their marks had turned dazzling colors, blue and gold swirling together, sparks of green where they met.

"Wow," Jaskier breathed, tracing Geralt's mark reverently, sending tingles of electricity sparking across Geralt's skin. "So beautiful."

"Would have to be," Geralt mumbled, tucking his face into Jaskier's neck and kissing his collarbone. "It's on you."

Jaskier carded his hand through Geralt's hair, chuckling. "Melitele's tits, dearheart, that's quite romantic."

Geralt snorted. "Don't get used to it. I'm clearly weakened by my injuries."

"Oh, really? Well, then," Jaskier faked a sigh. "I guess that means I'll have to do all the work tonight." His hands slid down to knead Geralt's arse.

Geralt felt himself going hot, even as he pressed into the touch. "You don't have—" He tried to say, but Jaskier guided him backward until the bed hit his knees and he went sprawling on the mattress.

"Shh," Jaskier crooned, crawling over him with a hungry light in his eyes. "Let me take care of you, my love."

Geralt swallowed.

And then he smiled.

And he did.

And they lived happily ever after.

**Author's Note:**

> Headcanon that I couldn't figure out how to fit in the actual story: bonding to a person with a magically extended lifespan will also extend your lifespan. Jaskier is now ageless and as soon as he figures that out he fully intends to be an asshole about it to everyone he meets.  
> Come shoot me prompts or just scream incoherently at me @artemisthehuntress on tumblr!
> 
> Songs: "Simple Song" by The Shins (tho I imagine Jaskier doing a sort of slow acoustic version), and "As I Am" by Heather Dale


End file.
